


Patch

by yeaka



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aggression, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominance, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-30
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-25 02:23:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/947481
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Khan releases a bit of tension from his day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patch

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don’t own Star Trek or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His jacket covers the scars on his wrists, but by the time he reaches the top floor, he knows they’ll be healed. The joy of augmented skin. When he arrives at ‘work’ tomorrow, he’ll be asked to show off his arms, and Marcus will run over them, make some snide remark, and mark them anew. The monotony is sometimes as sickening as the dull ache from the wounds. 

Khan’s starting to realize that that _eventually_ he yearned for is never coming. No matter how many files he pours through, no matter how many warheads he prefects, no matter how many times he licks Marcus’ boots, his crew will never be returned. It’s a suspicion he had from the beginning. He liked it better as a suspicion. Now the slow slither of the truth is like an illness under his skin, darkening every step he takes. By the time the elevator opens, his fingers are curling tightly into his palm.

Fists won’t solve anything, but Khan’s a vindictive sort of man. He can’t crush Marcus’ head like he wants to, but there are other ways to take out his aggression. He doesn’t bother to ask. He slips the stolen tricorder from his pocket as he nears another’s apartment door—his own is too monitored. A few slices through security, and the light beneath the door clicks off. It still opens for him. He locks it after. He slips his coat from his shoulders and his boots from his feet before he can be joined in the room, and then he slinks off into the darkness, playing a familiar game. 

If he could chase this man through the forest, he would. He has that distinct urge to _hunt_ , but Starfleet quarters aren’t exactly premium grounds. It’s all he has. With the lights off, he can pretend it’s different. He can feign fright in his victim, even though the steps that ring through the air are merely cautious. Khan carefully notes their direction. The owner of the apartment is searching for the intruder, although Khan doesn’t bother with anyone possessing less than superior intelligence; thus, surely, the man knows exactly who it is.

That doesn’t make it any less dangerous. Khan knows he’s an unpredictable element to the logical Vulcan, and there’s nothing rational about the way Khan stalks about his living room. Spock’s footsteps falter—he must’ve heard Khan. Khan can hear him breathing. Spock must know from the lightshow that something’s wrong. 

_Everything’s_ wrong in this new century, and Khan’s going to take it out on the one body he knows can handle it and will let him. He can smell Spock’s confusion in the air, masked under a calm exterior. Extrapolating that and the trail of early footsteps, Khan estimates Spock’s direction. He wants to get Spock from behind. He creeps around like the snake he can be. 

He throws his arm around Spock’s shoulders, grabbing the side of Spock’s face, knowing he could snap Spock’s neck if he wanted to. He catches around Spock’s middle with the other arm, trapping Spock’s arms, but he’s a fraction of a second too slow. Spock’s Vulcan resources are kicking in, and he elbows Khan hard enough in the side for Khan to double over, hands slipping away. Spock whirls around, and Khan can’t determine the direction of the blow fast enough to dodge—he’s kicked backwards. His knees hit the back of something—the coffee table?—and he lunges forward again, snarling. He knows Spock will expect him to come level, so he ducks down and catches Spock by the waist instead, knocking Spock to the floor. Spock abruptly rolls them over, and Khan smashes his fist into Spock’s chest. Another kick and Spock’s thrown off him. Khan scrambles to his feet; Spock does the same. Spock’s panting with either exertion or temper, and either one makes Khan smirk. He _loves_ breaking that cold exterior...

Spock has no business serving on a starship beneath a weak human. He should be in Khan’s crew. He has the strength, has the intelligence. He _thinks_ he has control, but really, he can throw tantrums just as badly as Khan can, and he’s easier than he thinks to break. He’d look good standing next to Khan’s captain’s chair. Right now, he looks good in the dark. 

He whispers, like this is any business of his at all, “John, being so rough with me will not accomplish any of the things you want.”

Khan doesn’t answer; it’s a ploy to give away his position. Now he knows where Spock is. Spock doesn’t have any _idea_ what he wants. He makes a grab for Spock’s shirt, fingers connecting with material, and he abruptly pulls Spock around, shoving Spock hard in the direction Khan’s sure the bedroom’s in. He hears Spock’s back connect with a door—that door opens a second too late, making a mechanical purring sound as it goes. Khan marches towards it and reaches down, feeling for Spock, finding Spock’s hair and fisting in it. Spock makes a deep snarling sound, followed by a warning, “ _John_...”

Khan jerks the Vulcan to his feet to hiss, “But Mr. Spock, you looks so good when you’re all roughed up.” Another kick to the stomach, and Spock’s thrown into the center of the bedroom. Khan hears the mattress groan, box spring creaking, as weight’s applied. It releases a moment later, but that won’t do. 

This time, Khan catches Spock by the throat. Spock’s fingertips brush Khan’s collarbone, and he immediately shoves that hand away. Another perk of the darkness is that Spock can’t see precisely where the right spot for a neck pinch is. This evens the playing field. Well, as even as anything with Khan can be. Spock gets in a hard punch to his stomach, but Khan swallows the pain and forces Spock down. He grabs at the hem of Spock’s pants and spins Spock around so fast that Spock’s elbow accidentally hits his chin. He holds Spock face-first in the mattress, and before Spock can get up again, Khan’s fully on top of him. 

The bedroom window’s already closed. It’s pitch black. Khan can see the Vulcan in his mind, face contorted with the attempt to contain rage. Spock’s always the best looking when he’s struggling, when his bow lips are gasping and his teeth are grit, eyes twitching. That’s how Khan pictures him now. Khan holds Spock’s leg down with his and finds Spock’s wrists, pinning them to the mattress. He keeps all of his weight atop Spock, holding him in place. Spock says like a short-circuiting robot, “I was in the middle of a considerably important Starfleet report—”

Khan growls, “I don’t care.” And to show it, he grinds his hips into the taut ass below him, showing off just how hard the struggle’s made him. He licks a thick line up the back of Spock’s neck, receiving only a repressed shudder. His hips power into a steady rhythm, humping Spock roughly, while Spock simply lies still and takes it. That makes it even better. Spock’s the closest thing he’ll ever have to a boyfriend, and this makes it more degrading, like this entire night is entirely out of Spock’s hands. He’s powerless beneath Khan’s strength—at least Khan has control of _something._

His licks work into bites, not-quite-kisses. He digs his teeth into Spock’s jaw and scrapes Spock’s ear, and when Spock’s hands try to move, Khan tightens his grip. He hears the grunt. He’ll cut off circulation if he has to. Khan’s voice slips into a dark chuckle, and he purrs, “Don’t try to fight me. We both know you’re nothing compared to your master...”

“We both know you want me to fight,” Spock retorts easily. Khan punishes him with a particularly hard thrust and deeper-sinking teeth that earns a hiss of pain. He wants Spock down. Spock reads him all wrong. He didn’t pick Spock because Spock can resist; he picked Spock because Spock can be batted around again and again, take as much abuse as Khan’s forced to. Spock’s limbs are still faintly struggling beneath him. 

“Behave,” Khan hisses. He never gets the choice; he always has a threat looming over him; he has to behave. When Spock simply ignores him, Khan growls, “Stop struggling, you idiot.” Spock stops instantly; Khan’s serious. “Your life is in my hands. I could flip you over and tear out your throat right now if I wanted...”

There’s a pause before Spock breathes too casually, “John, you have clearly had a trying day—”

The pummeling his hips get shuts him up. He doesn’t want to talk. He wants _this_. Khan uses his forehead to push Spock’s head down into the mattress, making him bow. “Do you feel what that is, pet?” Khan’s grinding hard into Spock’s rear, and his cock is very evident through his pants. Of course Spock can feel it. Spock’s been split open on it enough. Khan’s voice is barely above a whisper, deep and dangerous. “That’s what dominating you does to me. Hurting you gives me _pleasure_...”

“You do not want sex,” Spock mumbles into the sheets. Khan only stops for a moment, because Spock’s right. He doesn’t want to fuck Spock, he wants to _own_ Spock. He’s lost everyone else, and he needs someone in his pocket. He was a prince back home. Now he’s a pawn for some ministry, and if he has to go down in obscurity, he’s going to take someone with him. He squeezes at Spock’s wrists hard enough to bruise. He bites the back of Spock’s neck like an animal. 

He hisses in Spock’s ear, “Surrender.”

Spock’s cold. He’s unaffected. His ass is more tender than when they started, kneaded through the beating. Khan’s still slapping it with his clothed cock. Spock isn’t writhing so much as when he started, but he doesn’t say it. He needs to say it. Khan snarls, “ _Surrender!_ ”

“I...” There’s a brief pause. Tension before the release. Spock’s muscles noticeably relax before he says, “...Surrender.” He melts beneath Khan: a prisoner broken under conditioning. Or at least, a boyfriend tired of indulging one game and easing into another.

Khan chuckles darkly and gives him one last thrust, fingers finally loosening. He stays fully atop his prize, and he takes a large breath, drinking Spock’s submission into every pore. He can smell it, he can _feel_ it. He nuzzles into the side of Spock’s face as though to say, _‘good boy.’_

This treatment goes on until Spock asks softly, “I require another seventeen minutes to finish my report. May I go now?” Permission. Polite. Khan still takes the requisite time to consider. 

Khan drawls, “Zero, one, seven, two, two, nine, four.” The code to the lights. His right arm slips from Spock’s shoulder, elbow digging into the mattress, and he leans on it, giving Spock space to crawl out. 

He lets his prey go. 

That’s the different between him and Marcus.


End file.
